Translation
by Yannami
Summary: Nagihiko Fujisaki and I aren't friends. We aren't acquainted, nor are we buddies. We are sworn enemies, eager to take each other down using senseless banter and malevolence.


Translation

Nagihiko Fujisaki is obsessed with being polite. He's far too polite to everyone except me – which made sense, really, because we are, after all, sworn enemies. His initial blatant insulting remarks, however, are slowly beginning to diminish. It's very strange.

However, after weeks of checking him o – I mean – _analysing _him, I came to the conclusion that his allegedly innocent remarks were clearly sarcastic, devilish remarks hidden behind a flowery language. As his insults softened, I learned to look past his face, his smile, the patent meaning and focus on what he really meant.

I learned to come up with translations.

"Rima-chan, your hair looks like this noodle," he once stated while staring long and hard at his ramen, his face gentle. My translation, _You have frizzy, breakable, starch-colored noodle hair._

"Careful, Rima-chan! You might trip." _I doubt that you could successfully cross this perfectly stable pebbled road with those stubby little legs of yours._

"You look nice in that." _At least you look your age now – oh. Whoops! You still look like a ten-year-old. Progress! At least you don't look seven!_

"Rima-chan you devil." _You're evil._

"Rima-chan, that was harsh." _I hate you._

Now, before you conclude that I'm thinking too hard about this, let me tell you this: Nagihiko and I hate each other, and there is no way we could speak to one another without at least a twinge of malevolence. A casual conversation between us when we are trying to look civilized looks kind of like this:

"Why good morning! You look like a handsome, detestable little worm today, as always, Fujisaki!"

"Why thank you very much, Rima-chan! You look so sweet and kind and tiny, and I especially love your hair. Pray tell, what do you do with it? It's so pretty – like expired noodle starch. Oh my, dear me! Is that seaweed between your teeth?"

"Yes. You see, I always eat healthy so that I could spend a lot of time with you, dear friend!"

"How admirable! But wait, where did all the nutrition go? You're as short as a fifth grader!"

"Clearly, it all went to you! I mean, my, my, you are so intelligent, tall, witty, ugly, annoying –"

"Tiny, evil, flat-chested, rude –"

"DEVILISH, STUPID, GIRLY-FACED GAYLORD –"

"BRASH, COLD, IGNORANT SELFISH LITTLE PLUM THAT –"

You get the point.

Nagihiko has always been mean to me, and I to him. Like I said, though, the insults within the remarks he's been hurling at me are becoming more and more subtle; now, I often wonder if they're really still there. Because of our relationship history, I cannot exactly take a compliment from him without overthinking. I haven't exactly been very gracious and courteous when receiving his sweet remarks. It's strange to hear him call me cute, but at least I could still translate it. _Your cute is the baby rat kind of cute; it's almost laughable._

But then he called me beautiful, and then amazing. It's becoming more and more difficult to come up with translations. I couldn't exactly think when my head is throbbing. _But at least_ I could still translate it, right?

However, this afternoon, "I like you," he says. "I know that I haven't exactly been kind to you; we've been bantering since we first met, so I wasn't exactly sure how to start acting sensible towards you. But can I trust you when I say that I really, really like you?"

He was serious when he said it – the cheeky little grin he always had around me swiped clean off his face.

Then, there was something. I couldn't exactly describe it, but my chest felt like it was ballooning, and I could feel my mental face smile. On the outside, however, I looked like a deer-caught-in-headlights. Unable to come to terms with my brain, which was running low on oxygen at that time, I followed my body's movements and ran away.

Now _that_, I couldn't translate. The more sensible part of my brain eventually came in, and I began to wonder: did he mean it? Does Nagihiko really like me? And do I, Rima Mashiro, actually like him back?

I clenched my chest while trying and failing to suppress a smile. A tiny, familiar little voice within me cheered, "YES YOU DO!"

My translation: _Go back in there and kiss him._


End file.
